He's A Tramp
by Inkblooded Witch
Summary: Alfred knew even before the other jailbirds broke the news to him. Arthur was a lot of things, and 'Tramp' is apparently on the list. That doesn't make it any easier to tell him "no". USUK. Three-shot.
1. Part 1

**Originally this was supposed to be a one-shot. But as it sort of morphed into a three-shot :P Ah well, hope you like! I'm on a short-story finishing streak! :D**

 **Enjoy!**

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Alfred carefully lifted the phone with one hand, but had to wait until he'd dialed the number with his other before he could lift it to his ear. He _hated_ handcuffs, and frankly he thought they were overkill. It wasn't like he was a rapist or murderer. The same couldn't be said for the people he'd be spending the night with, though, if what he'd heard was true. As light as the offense was, he'd be spending the night in a holding cell with God knows who else.

"Come on, pick up, pick up," he muttered, tapping a foot anxiously. He just had the one phone call, and he _really_ hoped it wouldn't be wasted just because Mathew was with Gilbert...

One ring away from voicemail, an irritated voice asked, "Hello?"

Alfred slumped in relief. Mathew sounded out of breath, but at least he'd answered. "Hey, Mattie? It's me."

"Alfred? Where are you? I don't recognize the number."

"Um, yeah, about that. I'm at the police station."

" _What?_ You're where? Wait, don't tell me, is _he_ with you, eh? I keep telling you to stay away from him. Now he's landed you in jail. What the hell were you doing, anyway?"

Alfred glanced over at the officer standing at the end of the short hall, arms folded, a less-than-pleasant expression on his face. "Well, they might have mentioned something about trespassing and disturbing the peace."

Mathew groaned. "Let me guess, you need bail?"

"Yeah, but it can wait till morning. I'm stuck anyway."

"Alfred, how many times have I told you to stay away from Arthur? How any times have I told you he'll get you into trouble?"

"Are we counting all the times or just the times that aren't sarcastic?"

"I was _never_ sarcastic Alfred! Maple, what are you going to do if mom and dad find out?"

"Who said they have to?" protested Alfred.

"They will eventually, Al."

Alfred started to run a hand through his hair, but grimaced as the handcuffs knocked against the receiver.

"Are you in _handcuffs?"_

"Maybe."

Mathew muttered what Alfred guessed to be a blend of French and German profanities, though he only understood the occasional "maple".

"Fine. I'll be there in the morning. I'll post your bail on the condition you at least _try_ to stay away from him."

"It's not like I went looking for him, Mattie. _He_ found _me_ , he always does. Spending a night in jail wasn't exactly something I had on my bucket list."

Mathew sighed. "That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it? Fine. Just...keep your head down, alright Al? I want you in one piece when I pick you up."

Alfred hung up the phone, grimacing. He knew Mathew was right, he'd known it from the beginning. Arthur Kirkland was trouble, he knew it and so did the Brit. He smoked, he drank, he swore, and he somehow managed to dodge the law at every turn. Alfred knew because he'd been with him the last two times. This time, though, the third time, he'd been caught. Arthur hadn't been. He'd slipped away and left Alfred facing two irritated police officers.

The thing was, Alfred had actually been trying to avoid Arthur this time. Yet he'd still found himself staring into those toxic green eyes that night. They'd been taking pot shots at drained beer bottles in an old empty lot when the police had showed up. At least they were familiar enough with Arthur that they assumed the Brit had been the one to empty the bottles. Alfred had a clean record, after all, and he was only nineteen. They hadn't even asked, so he hadn't had to lie. The only reason they'd caught even a glimpse of Arthur in the first place was because he'd started kissing Alfred.

The policeman currently handling him marched Alfred out of the general area into the hall where they had overnight holding cells. Two bunk beds were pushed up against the side of each cell, every bunk three beds tall. Alfred swallowed tightly when he saw every cell they passed was full of less-than-pleasant looking inmates. It was only 12:30, had they seriously caught this many already?

"You're lucky," the officer was saying. "You get the last bunk. Everyone else gets to wait it out on a cold bench."

He unlocked the cell at the very end, giving Alfred a push before slamming the bars shut behind him. "Earliest you can get out at 8:00. Try not to make any more trouble for yourself," he said as he walked away.

Alfred wondered briefly why they hadn't taken his cuffs off, only to realize that his five cell mates hadn't been given that curtsey either. He slowly looked around, taking them in. Two of them started to approach him, and he took a step back, shoulders hitting the bars.

One, the shortest, grinned. "What have we got here? Looks like a blueblood."

The figure sprawled over one of the top bunks stuck his head over the edge. "Be nice, Lovi. I know you're mad we're stuck in here-

"Shut it, _bastardo!_ It's your fault for picking that damned apartment complex. We have one fight and the neighbors call the police on us."

The Spaniard pouted, but didn't move from his perch.

"I take it this is your first time in her, _oui?"_ asked the second man, smiling charmingly. He was taller, blond, French, and familiar.

Alfred frowned, squinting in the bad light. "Wait, Francis? That you? What the hell are you doing in here?"

"Alfred? Ah, good, better than Mathieu. _Oui_ , it is me. I was wrongly accused of-

"Indecent exposure," huffed the voice from the top bunk opposite the Spaniard. "How do you know Francis?"

Alfred frowned, but before he could protest Francis answered for him. That one had sounded vaguely Asian.

"I know his brother. As well as his brothers boyfriend. An acquaintance who does not appreciate my beauty."

Alfred snorted. "You're an egotistical perv, dude."

The Italian snickered. "Nice one. Eh, maybe you're not so lame. Name's Lovino, and no I'm not here often. _Idiota_ up there?" He jerked a thumb at the Spaniard. "That's Antonio. Hands off."

"Like, you _totally_ have horrid taste," pouted a blond, hopping down from one of the middle bunks. He brushed past Lovino to study Alfred up close, lips pouting. "Those jeans are total knock offs. And a Captain America t-shirt? _Pu-lease!_ "

"What are you talking about? Both originated in Korea!" protested the voice in the top bunk.

"Shut up," hissed the person in the bottom bunk. "I am sick and tired of getting dragged in here with you! Next time you go raiding China Town, you're on your own. And for the last time, I am from _Hong Kong_ , not _Korea_ you stupid-"

The sentence was finished with what Alfred assumed to be very vulgar insults, but none were in English. The blond, whom Alfred was not entirely convinced was male, kept fussing over him, telling him things like he was an autumn and to stay away from pastels. He seemed to be harmless enough, at least, so Alfred just tuned him out.

"So tell me, Alfred, how did you end up here? I was under the impression you were something of a golden boy," mused Francis, shooing Lovino back to the bunks.

Alfred swallowed. "Oh, uh, not much. That's why they put you here, right? Minimal charges?"

"Mostly. Shoplifting, indecent exposure, disturbing the peace," shrugged Antonio. He was lying on his stomach now, arms folded on the edge of the bed, feet kicking lazily behind him. "What are you in for, _amigo?"_

"Trespassing and disturbing the peace."

Francis didn't seem convinced. "Did you fall into a bad crowd or something? You and sweet Mathieu were always so good. I'm in here even less thanks to him."

Alfred scuffed his foot on the cement floor. "Um, have any of you ever met a guy named Arthur Kirkland, by any chance?"

The cell went dead silent. Suddenly everyone was staring at him. Alfred shifted uncomfortably.

"Is that a yes?"

Lovino spat on the floor. "Feh, we know him alright." As he turned to climb onto his own bunk, Alfred heard him mutter, "Damned Tramp."

Francis suddenly looked very grim. It wasn't an expression Alfred was used to seeing on the Frenchman's face.

"You, um, _all_ know Arthur?" he asked, not quite believing it.

Francis nodded sadly. " _Oui_ , I'm afraid we do."

" _Everyone_ knows Arthur," drawled the blond. Batting his lashes at Alfred he added, "What a _dog_."

"He _never_ gets caught," muttered Lovino, climbing up to squeeze in next to Antonio.

"Never," agreed the Spaniard cheerfully, ruffling the smaller man's hair. "He's very good at it."

"I take it he's taken a liking to you?" asked Francis, rubbing his chin.

Alfred shuffled his feet. "I guess," he mumbled.

That was a bit of an understatement, though at the moment he was a little unwilling to say as much. He'd stumbled onto the Brit some weeks ago, when he was still trying to figure out where things were in town. He and Mathew had moved to go to the resident college, both brothers enrolled as freshmen. Maybe that was part of why Alfred hadn't fought this as much as he should have. He had just finished high school, was living away from his parents for the first time, and Arthur was a new drug, as intoxicating as he was unhealthy.

"Has he gotten you into trouble before?" asked Francis, frowning at the cuffs on Alfred's wrists.

Alfred shrugged. "I haven't had to stay overnight before."

So far Arthur had only left him to his own devices three times. The first time it was just a slap on the wrist. The second time he was brought into the station for a scolding. This time...this time it was going on whatever record he might not have had until now.

"Alfred, Arthur is not good for you," Francis told him, eyes sad. "Look at what he's gotten you into. Believe me, I know. We all do."

Alfred frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What a _dog_ ," repeated the blond, giggling. "Like Lovino said, he's a tramp. You're the first blueblood to catch his eye, though. A pretty golden boy."

The bespectacled blond bristled at being called 'pretty'. Before he could protest, though, the Korean heaved a sigh. "That one was _not_ made in Korea."

"And you wouldn't believe what it takes to get him to say that," quipped the young man in the bottom bunk.

" _Oui_ , he is right," agreed Francis. "So is Feliks. Arthur is not good for you, Alfred. Once you're out you need to avoid him as much as possible. If he finds you walk the other way."

Alfred hesitated. "I tried that tonight. Look where it got me."

Antonio, who was petting his boyfriend's hair, sighed mournfully. "Yes, he is good at that. You must try very hard. He is persistent."

This earned him an elbow to the gut from Lovino. "I told you not to talk about him, _idiota_."

"I'm just giving him advice," pouted the Spaniard.

"Antonio was one of Arthur's previous boyfriends," Francis explained. "As am I. The only one in here that isn't is Feliks."

"Because he, like, totally has no taste."

It took a minute for Alfred to process this. He knew it was irrational to think that someone like Arthur hadn't gotten around, but he'd avoided thinking about it too much. Still, Arthur was only a few years older than he was. How bad could he be?

When he asked as much, Francis sighed.

"Very, I'm afraid. He wasn't always like this. We grew up together, you know. But halfway through high school, he changed. I don't know why. I was his first boyfriend. I had hoped he'd come around after I dumped him, but no. Nothing I or anyone else has tried gets through to him."

"What was he like then? Before I mean."

Francis seemed to consider this. "Mmm, that was six years ago. Something happened with his brothers when he was sixteen. Before that, he prided himself on being a gentlemen. He read Shakespeare for fun and avoided trouble like the plague. I think you would have liked him back then."

"You're telling me he turned on a dime overnight? How is that possible?"

"Not overnight. A week or so, I think. But by the time it became obvious there was no talking to him. Either way, it shouldn't matter. Promise me you won't go near him after tonight, Alfred."

For a moment Alfred thought about arguing. Even knowing what Arthur was, he was strangely reluctant to let go. There was even a thought of trying to turn the Brit back around. But, sadly, Alfred decided the logical way was probably best, especially if he wanted a clean record.

Reluctantly, he nodded.

Satisfied, Francis went over to the free middle bunk, climbing up onto it. "You can have the bottom," he said cheerfully, winking slyly.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

 **BREAK/BREAK\BREAK**

Mathew was at the jail, bright and early as promised, though he was not happy about it. He made this clear via a glare he kept leveled at Alfred the second he came into view. As his cuffs were removed, as he got his wallet and phone back, as he shuffled back through security, and as they walked out to his car.

The second the door was slammed Mathew burst, "Alfred F Jones, I swear if I have to bail you out again-

"You won't have to, Mattie. I'm done with him, I promise."

Mathew studied him, clearly not convinced. "Alfred," he began warningly.

"Look, I'm deleting his number, see?" Alfred shoved his phone under Mathew's nose as he hit the red button that did the deed. "If he comes knocking, I'm not in the country. I'm done with him, honest bro. You think I _need_ a record? If I'm going to be in the air force, or an astronaut, or anything remotely awesome, I can't have a record. Besides, second hand smoke isn't healthy."

The Canadian still gave him a long look before turning forward again, putting the keys in the ignition. "We'll see. If you can send him packing the next time he comes around, _then_ I'll believe you."

"Fair enough," muttered Alfred. He couldn't meet Mathew's eyes as he said it. He wanted it to be true, but he was also fully aware of just how...persuasive Arthur could be. In the immortal words of the Borg, "resistance is futile."

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	2. Part 2

**The shorter middle installment!**

 **Enjoy!**

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Alfred had thought he'd have at least a day before Arthur came back around. Normally there was at least a twenty four hour window between a police scare and his reappearance in Alfred's life. In fact, he had counted on it, planned for it. If he was going to send Arthur packing, he'd need to gather his wits for battle.

Mathew drove them back to their apartment, but only to drop off Alfred. He was still not in the best of moods, but Gilbert had talked him into meeting him for lunch. No doubt the albino, who had worked long and hard to earn Alfred's acceptance, was trying to help calm Mathew down. Especially since the place they would be eating at had the best pancakes the Canadian had ever tasted.

The first half hour was spent pacing around the apartment, nervously chugging soda as Alfred tried to come up with a worthy argument. A speech, really. It was a speech. Alfred wasn't overly good with words, but while he wanted to keep his word to Mathew, he also didn't want to be mean. It was a difficult balance, to say the least. To find a way to dump Arthur in a way that kept him away without hurting him. Not that Alfred was sure 'hurting' Arthur was even possible, but still. Some part of him genuinely liked the toxic man, and it was that same part that kept him pacing.

Alfred was about to get a forth can of Coke when someone rapped on the front door. Head still in the clouds, he strode across the living room and opened it without bothering to check who it was. He immediately regretted it, a mixture of dread and anger churning in his belly.

"You had me worried, love. They kept you all night, did they?"

There he stood, in the flesh. Sandy blond hair messy and ruffled, the eyebrows atop acidic green eyes as bushy as ever. Like Alfred, he was still in his clothes from the night before. Ripped and ragged jeans, studded belt pulled tight around his slender waist, snug t-shirt giving a few glimpses of pale skin. His black boots had an extra layer of grime, probably from last night. The fingerless biker gloves and studded arm bands completed the look Arthur had perfected. He managed to look calm and dangerous and sexy all that the same time, without apparent effort.

Alfred swallowed tightly. It took a surprising amount of willpower to keep from stepping aside, letting Arthur in as he had every time before. Standing his ground, he said, "Yeah, they did. And they took my fingerprints. And mug shots. I have a record now, Artie. Thanks a bunch."

Arthur's mouth set in a grim line. "You say that as though I wished it for you."

Unbidden, Francis's voice echoed in Alfred's mind. _"I was his first boyfriend. Halfway through high school, he changed."_ Feliks' annoying giggle, followed by, _"What a_ dog _. He's a tramp. You're the first blueblood to catch his eye. A pretty little golden boy."_ First. They'd both used the word 'first'. How many had Arthur gone through before him? What about Antonio? If that one cell had held five ex's alone, what about the others? Just how many did Arthur treat like he treated Alfred? For all he knew, there could be more right now.

Fists curling at his sides, Alfred glared at Arthur. "I met some people in there, Arthur. You know them, right? Loung, Lovino, Im Song Soo, Antonio, _Francis?"_

Arthur frowned at first, but he stiffened at the last name. Emboldened, Alfred plowed on.

"It was bad enough you get me into trouble, then I find out your a player? What am I, number thirty? Forty? Some stupid notch on your bedpost? Let me guess, that's why you're so persistent. You won't leave me alone until I put out, is that it?"

"Alfred, that's not-

"Then why is it everyone knew your name, huh? Everyone knew you and what you are but me. How sad is that?" demanded Alfred with a bark of bitter laughter.

"Alfred, that's enough. Just because some bloody jailbird sings a song doesn't mean you have to listen to it."

"You're right, I don't. That doesn't change the fact I've been trying to get away already. You get me into trouble I really don't need, Arthur. You _attract_ it. Eighteen years, and not a minute of detention. A few months with you, and I've gotten drunk, I've gotten arrested, I've got a frickin _record_. Hell that one time you almost got me _high_."

"I did no such thing!"

"Oh yeah? Then what were you doing that time you called me up at two in the morning to see if I wanted to go on an _adventure?"_

"I wouldn't have done that if I wasn't already gone myself lad," snapped Arthur angrily. "Besides, if memory serves you were hardly tempted."

"What memory? You were as high as a damn kite."

"A first and last occasion, I'll have you know."

"Fine, but you still drink, and you still smoke. I can live with a little drinking, but not if I'm getting talked into it when I'm underage. If I get caught they won't just keep me overnight, Arthur. Every time I'm near you, my judgment goes down the drain."

"You think I don't realize smoking's bad for me? That's one thing I've never offered you, and with good reason. It's bad enough I'm on fags, I won't have you on them too."

"Arthur, just stop," said Alfred, gripping the door tightly. He knew if he let the Brit keep talking he'd end up with him again. And that was something he couldn't do. He couldn't break his promise to Mathew, couldn't go back down the road he'd sworn off of.

"Alfred-

"Shut up! Just shut the hell up Arthur. I'm done, _we're_ done. Come back around again and I'm calling the police myself. Stay away from me, you got that? I don't want anything to do with you, Arthur Kirkland. You're just holding me back. I can do better than this, better than _you_. You're a shitty influence, a stupid drunk, and a liar who reeks like cigarettes all the time. I regret ever coming within ten feet of you. I hate you!"

Alfred ended the rant by slamming the door so hard the wall shook, turning the locks and jamming the chain into place. He braced his hands against the wood, catching his breath. Listening carefully, he didn't hear anything for several long minutes. He was about to cheek the peep hole when he heard the slow gritting noise of boots on cement.

Shoulders slumping in relief, Alfred straightened, then realized fully just what all he'd said to Arthur. Guilt immediately crashed over him, despite his efforts to shake it off. It didn't make him reach for the door, though. Not even when he remembered how Arthur's expression had slowly changed during his rant. If he didn't know any better, he'd say he'd actually _hurt_ Arthur. But that couldn't be right, could it? He was just the latest in a long line of boy toys. Right?

Trying very hard not to think about it, Alfred retreated to his room. He didn't even bother scavenging for food in the kitchen, his appetite gone. When in doubt, burry yourself in mind-numbing homework.

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	3. Part 3

**The longest and final installment!**

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Arthur didn't move when the persistent visitor knocked on his door for the third time. He closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his forehead. He was where he'd been all day, in the corner of the living room in his tiny apartment, hiding and wishing the pain away.

A click as a key entered the lock made the Brit look up, but only briefly. It was a true statement to just how bad off he was that he couldn't even bring himself to care. Honestly, he'd given his key to Francis as something of a joke, but the Frenchman had kept it for the occasions a very drunk Arthur needed a hand. Why he even bothered was beyond Arthur. He had a wife now for pities sake.

"Arthur? Why are you in the dark?"

"Don't turn them on!" Arthur hissed when Francis made for the lights.

He groaned when his demand was ignored, Francis flipping on a lamp. " _Mon Dieu_ _,_ Arthur. What's wrong with you? You'd better not be drunk at two in the afternoon."

"I'm not. I have touched a bloody bottle in a week, frog. Now go away. I'm not in the mood to kick your arse."

"A week?" repeated Francis in disbelief. The sound of shinny shoes on carpet padded closer, but Arthur still didn't look up. "You haven't gone more than two days without a drink in years."

Reluctantly, Arthur looked up just enough to glower at Francis, who had crouched down to his level. He saw blue eyes narrow as his old friend/ex took in his state. He knew for a fact he looked as bad as he felt.

Arthur's head throbbed, his stomach refused to settle, his hands shook, and he was sweating despite having cranked up the AC. Normally he had multiple quips for Francis whenever he stopped by, making sure Arthur hadn't managed to kill himself. Now he couldn't bring himself to voice any of them. In his defense, according to the internet it would take as long as two weeks before the symptoms went away.

"Either you haven't slept in days, or you gave up something besides drinking," said Francis at last.

"Both," groaned Arthur, lowering his head again.

"A week without alcohol," mused Francis. "What about a smoke? How long?"

"Three days."

Francis was quiet for a minute, then asked, "Does this have anything to do with Alfred?"

"Go to hell," growled Arthur. "It's your bloody fault you know. He wouldn't have gone over the edge if you hadn't opened your damn mouth, frog."

"Six years, Arthur," mused Francis, sitting cross legged. "You've done more in a single week than anyone's been able to make you in six years. You're quitting cold turkey. Why?"

"Why do you care, cheesy monkey?" demanded Arthur, glaring at him through bloodshot eyes.

"Because, despite everything, I do care about you Arthur. You were my friend before you were anything else. You're in withdrawal from two drugs. I want to help you, since you're serious, and you're in no state to argue."

Arthur didn't know whether to laugh or scream or cry. He was also torn between trying to physically kick Francis out and playing along. Eventually he settled for looking away and mumbling, "Why are you here, frog?"

"I thought I'd check on Alfred and his brother yesterday. They are friends of mine, you know. Imagine my surprise when I hear you actually did as you were told. Arthur Kirkland hasn't obeyed a single order since he was sixteen years old. I wanted to make sure you were still alive."

"I'm alive. You can leave now, frog."

"No, I'm not. I'm going to make sure you don't relapse and you don't die."

That said, Francis straightened, and marched into the kitchen. A few minutes later he came back, mug in one hand and Tylenol in the other. He set both on the coffee table, then came back over to Arthur. Ignoring the Brit's protest, Francis got him off the floor, maneuvering him onto the couch. He pushed the mug into his hands, then flopped down a few cushions away.

"Thanks, frog," Arthur mumbled into the cup.

Francis pretended not to hear, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He waited until Arthur had gulped down the pills and had made his way through his second mug of tea before speaking, though.

Deciding to go with the simple approach, he said, "You must really like him."

"What?"

"Alfred. He is special, _non?"_

"Hardly. Just got tired of being in the bloody gutter all the time."

"Really? Then why is he the first to dump you, and not the other way around? Why is he the first to bring on the sudden urge to get clean? It's no coincidence he walked out of a holding cell one week ago, Arthur, exactly when you give up drinking. Four days later you give up smoking too."

Arthur decided not to dignify any of what the man said with a response. He kept nursing his tea, ignoring Francis. Eventually the Frenchman left without a word, only to return that night with an armful of pre-made meals. And more tea. Lots of tea. By then, though the Tylenol had helped to some degree, Arthur wasn't in the mood to protest. Especially since he felt like crawling under a rock, something that hadn't happened to him in some time. He wasn't going to badmouth Francis for remembering he couldn't cook worth a damn, especially if the man was willing to help after everything Arthur had put him through.

For the next few weeks, Francis dropped by every day to check on him, making sure he was actually eating the food he brought and didn't fall off the wagon. The latter was something he never should have worried about, though. He was the one who'd gotten angry at Arthur in the past for being as stubborn as a mule. Arthur would just as soon keel over before he gave in.

 **BREAK/BREAK\BREAK**

Alfred slug his backpack over one shoulder, shoving the door to his car shut. He clicked the button to lock it, trudging his way towards their apartment. It wasn't until he almost reached the door that he noticed who was leaning against it. He stopped, surprised.

"Hey, Francis, what's up?"

The Frenchmen stopped by every week or so to check on them. He'd developed a protective streak ever since Alfred had joined him for a night in the police station. Aside from a few purvey tendencies, Alfred had decided he wasn't that bad.

"Alfred, _mon ami_ _,"_ he began slowly. "I need to ask you for a favor."

"Uh, sure. What 'cha need?"

"I need you to call Mathieu."

Alfred frowned. "Why?"

"Because I need to make sure he's alright with you breaking a promise."

Eyes narrowing, Alfred asked, "Which promise?" Friend or not, Alfred made a point to never go back on his word. _Especially_ not when his word was to Mathew.

Francis held up both hands defensively. "If you hear me out, you will both agree with me. It's for the best this time."

"Fine. Maddie should be back in about half an hour. Move over and I'll let you in."

Francis moved away from the door, letting Alfred unlock it and push it open. Following him inside, Francis asked innocently, "Have you heard from Arthur?"

Alfred eyed him, letting his backpack slip to the floor next to the couch. Considering Arthur was the source of Francis's increased interest in the twins, the Frenchman hadn't mentioned him outright. Frankly Alfred just tried not to think about him, period. He still felt guilty about telling him off like that, no matter how true or effective it might have been. Some part of him, the stupid sentimental part of him he'd decided, actually missed Arthur.

"I haven't seen him. Why?"

"Why don't we wait for Mathieu?" suggested Francis, sinking gracefully onto the couch. "I don't suppose you have wine on hand?"

"Dude, we're nineteen."

"Shame."

Alfred shrugged, making his way into the kitchen. "Closest thing to wine we've got is soda. There might me some grape in the back."

"Water is fine," sighed Francis.

When Mathew finally came in, he took one look at the sober faced Francis on the couch and asked, "Who died?"

Francis cracked a smile, setting his water glass aside. "No one. Yet."

"He wants me to get permission from you to break a promise," said Alfred, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorway to the kitchen.

"Which one?"

"That's all he'd tell me before you showed up. He's here, Francis. Start talking."

Francis leaned back, rubbing his chin, studying the twins. "The one you made regarding Arthur. I need you to break it."

Mathew scowled. Alfred frowned. "What for?"

"Forget it, Alfred. It's nice to see you again, Francis, but we both have homework."

"I would not ask if I didn't think it was important, Mathieu," urged Francis, bracing his hands on his knees. "Arthur has honored Alfred's wishes, has he not?"

Mathew looked at Alfred, who nodded. "I haven't seen him, Mattie. Like, at all."

"Arthur has been getting clean. Unfortunately, he went for the cold turkey approach. I've been keeping an eye on him, but...one of the symptoms of withdrawal is depression. He also chose to make the unwise decision to quit smoking and drinking at the same time."

Alfred frowned. "Seriously? Just like that? When?"

Francis smiled tightly. "After you dumped him. I must say, I had no idea he was so fond of you. It's adorable actually. Or it would be if I didn't have to worry for his sanity."

Mathew was eyeing Francis suspiciously, but Alfred's face was now creased with a worried frown.

"Wait, so he's suicidal?" he asked.

"No, but I am concerned he won't last until the symptoms reduce. It takes at least eight weeks, probably more. He has only been clean for five weeks. I think he needs a moral boost."

Alfred glanced at Mathew. His brother didn't look completely sold, but it looked like he wasn't completely set against it either.

"Mattie...

"Don't Mattie me. I'm not letting you get back in the gutter."

"Then come with me. You think I'm slipping, you pull me out, I never go back. Please?"

Mathew didn't look like he was going to agree, but he made the mistake of looking Alfred in the face. His brother had an infamous puppy-dog-face. Better than any puppy-dog-pout. Big, pleading eyes, hopeful face, everything except a wagging tail.

"Fine," he muttered, looking away. "Tomorrow morning."

 **BREAK/BREAK\BREAK**

"Remind me why I'm doing this?"

"Because you're the best brother in the history of awesome brothers?"

Mathew snorted, cutting the engine. "You've been spending too much time with Gilbert. Should I be worried you've been bonding with my boyfriend?"

Alfred laughed, opening the door. "Nah. He's just better at video games than you. Believe me, bro, he's not my type. Besides, he's the first guy that treats you right. I'm not touching that."

And _that,_ unfortunately, was why Mathew was doing this. Because Alfred would do the same for him in a heartbeat. He might have been the brother that got into more trouble growing up, but the minute Mathew needed him he'd come running. Even if it meant letting Alfred walk up to his ex's door to see if he really had quite cold turkey.

"Just get it over with," said Mathew uneasily, glancing around. Arthur's apartment was in what was quite possibly the seediest complex in town. He didn't like it, but Alfred didn't seem to have any problems bounding up to the door with a rusting number 5 on the door.

Alfred gave the peeling paint a few sharp raps. He waited about a minute, then knocked again. He was knocking for the third time when the door was wrenched open.

"Oi! I'm not d...

Arthur trailed off, staring at Alfred. Mathew knew right then Francis hadn't been kidding. He'd only seen Arthur a few times, but he knew for a fact the man looked bad. The Brit was pale, eyes bloodshot and set over dark circles. He was scruffy, haggard, and Mathew was pretty sure he'd lost weight, and not in a good way.

"Alfred? What are you...

Mathew looked at his brother. Alfred was staring at Arthur, color draining from his face. "Iggy, you look like hell."

Arthur smiled tightly. "Thanks for noticing. Why are you here, lad? Thought you'd never come within a mile of me again."

"When was the last time you ate? I thought Francis was bringing food over," demanded Alfred, pushing Arthur back into the apartment, ignoring his protests.

Mathew followed them, pulling the door shut and turning the lock.

"He said you were eating. Let me guess, you toss it out and lie to 'em? You can't live off tea, Artie. And what about sleep? You need sleep."

"I've been eating just fine and I get enough sleep! You can't just barge in here-

"I can and I am. Hey Mattie, found some pancake mix! You mind?"

"And what are you going to do?" asked Mathew crisply, following them into the kitchen.

"See how accurate Francis's guess was," answered Alfred grimly. "Artie, living room. Now."

A deep frown was set in Arthur's weary face, but he obediently trailed Alfred back into the living room.

Alfred sat him down on the couch, then sat on the coffee table so they'd be face to face. "Alright, Artie, talk to me. What's with you, huh? I've seen you high and hungover. You weren't pretty but you weren't this bad."

Arthur ran a hand back through his hair, which looked like it hadn't been washed in at least a week. "I'm fine. I'll be better in a few weeks. Why did Francis send you here? If you didn't want to come here-

"Francis didn't make me do anything. It looks like he was pretty straight with me. Mathew's the safety, in case you turn me to your wicked ways."

Arthur's lips twitched. "I'm not going through hell to get out of those wicked ways just to drag you into them, lad." He studied Alfred for a moment, then said, "You look well."

"Yeah, but you don't. That's why I'm here. I know it's no picnic, but it shouldn't be this bad. You're not eating or sleeping and you're drinking way to much tea, am I right?"

Arthur gave him a dirty look, but didn't deny it. "You've made it clear how you feel, I don't see why you care."

Alfred winced. "Listen, about that, I'm sorry. I didn't...I meant some of it, not all of it. I don't hate you, Iggy. I never did, I was just scared is all. I didn't want to hurt you."

Arthur frowned. "It's not anything I didn't deserve, I suppose. You were right about most of it, I'm afraid. You could do a hell of a lot better than me, love. You deserve it."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. You don't get to make that call, Artie. Once you're back on your feet I'll find out for myself, we just need to get you there first. You're going to shower, you're going to eat Mattie's awesome pancakes, and tonight you're going to take a really long nap."

Arching one bushy brow, he asked, "What? You're not going to search my flat? I'm surprised Francis hasn't yet."

"I don't think I need to. You don't look like you're cheating. If you fell off the wagon you'd look a lot better."

"Thanks ever so," said Arthur, mouth twisting wryly.

"Why'd you do it?"

The wry twist turned back to a frown. "Do what?"

"Go cold turkey. The last time I saw you, anyone suggested it and they got flipped the bird. You flipped _me_ the bird. And that was just to one or the other, you're doing both. How come?"

Arthur wouldn't meet his eyes, giving a one shouldered shrug. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm worried about you, Iggy. I don't...I really liked you, alright? I only left because you were a frickin' trouble magnet. I want you to get clean, I want to help you. It's not painless process, but it shouldn't be this bad. Let me help you, Artie."

"I'm not worth it lad, trust me."

"Yes, you are."

Arthur opened his mouth, and Alfred made a snap decision. Arthur had used it enough on him in the past, he figured he was entitled to use it himself. It was pretty hard to argue when someone was kissing you breathless, after all.

At first Arthur was ridged, but gradually he went boneless. His eyes fluttered closed, and he started kissing Alfred back. Pale hands drifted up to broad shoulders, touching, then gripping.

When Alfred finally pulled away, grinning, Arthur blinked a few times before asking, "What?"

"That's the first time I've kissed you and you don't taste like cigarettes, Iggy. I like it. You might be a tramp, but you're _my_ tramp."

Before Arthur could do more than crack a tiny smile, Alfred decided to move in for round two.

* * *

 **End!**

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